


Armchair

by thesacredgrove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deepthroating, F/M, Light BDSM, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, POV First Person, POV Original Female Character, POV reader, Scarf Kink, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesacredgrove/pseuds/thesacredgrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and our Humble Narrator let us know they're both switches with a quickie and some light bondage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armchair

 

  


  
Naked, head down. Cock - hard. Blindfolded, hands tied behind his back with his own scarf. On the armchair in the den, back-lit by a rising sun streaming in the windows. Just a glance at his silhouette in the half-light of the room is enough to make me hungry for him.

I had only left my dear detective alone here for a few moments. As much as I love to play, I am _so_ impatient. The Game never lasts. He's glad for that, as he is usually bored fairly easily.

Usually.

* * *

I'm standing in the doorway, bracing my bare back against the carved wooden arch, listening to the clock tick as I just watch him breathe. He turns his covered eyes towards me.

“I can hear you,” he says quietly, though I'd arrived silently.  
“Only 6 minutes this time. I believe that's a record.”

I laugh softly. I can't help it.

“I know you don't just let me do this to indulge me,” I say, bridging the gap between us quickly and quietly.

He shakes his head slowly, “You know that's not the case.”

In the half-light, I can just discern a smile spreading over his lips as he continues, “I've been imagining what you're going to do to me this time,” he whispers. I clearly see his manhood pulsing gently as he speaks, “If it's anything like last time ...”

I cut him off with my lips and tongue invading his mouth. His body straightens and surges up to meet mine, mouth opening. Already straining against the scarf tied behind his back, his muscular shoulders working to free wrists from woolen fabric.

He could easily escape.  
But he doesn't.

“If it's anything like last time,” he continued, after I was done with his mouth, “I'd like to request the _red_   strap-on.”

Memories rush over me in waves, as does my arousal; instantly, I am even more ready for his sex than before. I kneel on the rug in front of the armchair.

“No requests, my love,” I manage to get out before my mouth is on his cock. He shudders from head to toe as his manhood swells between my lips. Soon, he's begging for more. He knows what I love. He pleads for it.

“All of it," he moans, "Please.”

I would not say that I obliged him, but that I did what I had planned to do.  
What I love to do.

Gently, slowly, I take his entire length into my mouth. His full head pushing against the back of my throat, I tug at the softness below while I work my lips around his base. A finger slips further back to tease his ass. He surges in my mouth and his swollen size forces me to slip him out.

A cough.  
A tongue lapping at thick saliva left behind.

“I need to see this,” he says flatly, “I've been so good.”

He's right – he has been very good. I humor him by rising to my feet and removing the blindfold with one hand, the other never leaving his slick cock.

* * *

It's brighter now; the sun is rising, and it takes a moment of blinking for him to be able to see comfortably.

“Your eyes ...” he uncharacteristically struggles for words, “are on fire.”

His manhood surges in my hand as he looks into me.

“I need you,” I breathe, “I need this.”

Tugging at his cock, I straddle him on the chair. It takes me a moment to get my legs around the plush upholstery, and to work our joint wetness out and around. It's just a few seconds before we cry out in unison, our bodies kissing. My lips part to take him inside until the whole length of him is buried to the hilt.

“What a prize,” he whispers into my hair, "Promise me -" he stops short, gasping.

Catching his breath, he continues.

“Promise me that I will always be here.”

I smile, moving myself back and forth on his hardness. Soft, wet sounds meet our ears.

“Only you,” I breathe, “Always.”

He tries to match my motions with thrusts of his own but it is difficult for him, tied. I realize soon that I need his hands on me - unbinding him then, I loosely toss his scarf over the back of the chair.

Knowing just where his hands belong, both fall to my lower back as soon as he is freed. I rock slowly above him, grinding my sex into the muscular area above his thickness and he pulls me closer to him, holding me tightly.

He is able to thrust in earnest now, and I match his rhythm. Our movements cause the scarf to begin to slip from the chair onto the floor. Before it can, he grabs it in midair, throwing it loosely around my neck. He holds both ends and wraps them around one hand – the other never leaving its home on my lower back.

“Ride it,” he demands, pulling the scarf tight around my neck.

He knows I love this.  
He knows I can't refuse.

* * *

  
Time feels like it's standing still as we fuck. It could be minutes or hours.

His hand on my back.  
His scarf tight at my throat.

We are so alike - how we mirror each other in this game of ours. Our breath begins to match and it's almost too much for me. I push myself onto him, wrap my arms around his shoulders and chest while he whispers in my ear, telling me how much he loves me, telling me how much he loves this, reminding me of how far in my throat his manhood just was. I'm hanging on his words when he begs me to come for him. Begs me to give him my love.

My sex.  
My everything.

I moan low and speak his name. He knows what that means. He moves in response: hand tightens on my back, scarf yanked. Cock jumps, almost enraged that I haven't climaxed already.  
  
His actions send me over the edge. Shivering, I grab him tighter and explode, a mess of tangled hair and flailing arms.  
He doesn't stop.

_He doesn't stop._

* * *

“Promise me,” I cry, panting, “Promise me it'll be your turn next time?”

He laughs.

“That _was_ my turn,” he breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> A quick little thing I dashed off this evening for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge #3: Songfic, based on the song "[In Your Room](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glh7ZqeGh6g)" by Depeche Mode.


End file.
